


Ghost of Christmas past

by Sweetscribe



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetscribe/pseuds/Sweetscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has trouble finding the Christmas spirit, as his heart and mind still are shaken from the suicide of a certain Consulting Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost of Christmas past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Octopieces](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Octopieces).



> Based on the prompt 'ghost of Christmas past'
> 
> Sadly, this version of the story is a much shorter and less detailed one than the one I had to begin with. I lost the word file with the story on which I'd spent most of November writing. So this is a quickly rewritten, and un-beta'd version of the story, but I hope it still works.  
> And I hope you guys will enjoy it nontheless.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

John turned, facing a skinny looking bloke with the appearance of a homeless. His hoodie had a name tag, crudely spelling out the name Brett.

“I’m good, thank you. Just… Looking.”

“Into the supernatural, eh?”  Brett didn’t leave, why didn’t he leave? “Trying to contact someone who’s on the other side?”

Brett pointed at the book John had looked at. A book on contacting spirits, how to talk to them, and ultimately how to let go and move on. Frowning, John stepped back.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t exist,” Brett grinned.

John left the shop without a word. He had just been looking. It wasn’t like he had been contemplating on buying the book, because he was a sensible man, who knew that such things were nothing but a hoax. A way to make money of those who were so desperately trying to get their last goodbye with a dearly departed.

What a load of bollocks.

The dead didn’t speak. They were just dead.  They would stay dead, and they would be sorely missed.

 

Two days later, it was the first day of December. And it was snowing. John passed a couple on the street, overhearing the woman joyfully exclaim that it was a Christmas miracle. And John hated himself for thinking, rather bitterly, that miracles were like ghosts; non-existent. He was turning into a right Grinch, and it was only December first.

He felt wrong.

When people lose someone, they mourn, but eventually they more or less move on with their lives. Continue as they were, reducing the pain of mourning to just missing. John couldn’t do that. Sherlock Holmes had been dead for over two years, and John had not gone one day without thinking about it.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t right that his nightmares from Afghanistan now had fusioned themselves with the memories of the day of Sherlock’s suicide, creating a nightmare that caused John to avoid sleeping at any cost.

It wasn’t right that John now glanced at his gun, thinking unthinkable thoughts that he’d vowed never to have.

It wasn’t right that John had to realise _after_ the detective’s death, just how much the man actually meant to John. That something had been lingering, daring to hope that there could be more than just friendship one day.

It wasn’t right that he felt lost.

 

On the third of December, after a day at the clinic with people with colds, people afraid of getting a cold, and one hypochondriac who feared she might have caught the plague, John dumped himself in his chair with his laptop in hand.

Those who hadn’t been to 221B Baker Street in the past few years, wouldn’t recognise the flat at all. Sherlock’s things were gone. The furniture still stood, but all of the consulting detective’s belongings, were now stacked in boxes in his old bedroom. Because John couldn’t stand looking at it anymore, it made the ache worse, but he couldn’t get himself to get rid of it either. Mrs. Hudson had once tried to give away some of the science equipment, but John had reacted in a way he hadn’t been proud of, and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t tried to touch Sherlock’s stuff since.

_“It’s fine, dear, I understand.”_

John wouldn’t reply to that.

The flat was paid for, but not by John. Mycroft Holmes undoubtedly had something to do with it, and John figured it was Mycroft’s way of trying to rid himself of guilt, which John intended to let him. The man deserved to feel guilty, and at least John still had a place to stay because of that.

Checking his email, John responded to a mail from Harry, one from Greg Lestrade, deleted what looked like a promotion email from Sierra Hotel, and finally emailed his new psychiatrist.  Stephen was just as useless as all of the others, but at least it brought some change into John’s life to have a new person tell him about his issues.

Shortly after having responded to his emails, John’s phone chimed. Harry.

“Hel-”

“What the hell do you mean you’re not coming over for Christmas?” Harry slurred angrily into the phone.

“Harry, how about you call me once you’re sober? I really don’t want to have this conversation with you when you’re drunk,” John answered tightly.

“Fuck you, John. You could as least gimme a good reason not to come. It’ll be a blast!”

“You’ll be drunk.”

“I’m always drunk,” she tried to sound proud of it, and John grimaced in disgust and pity for her.

“Excactly. You’re always drunk. You’re not even trying to be sober anymore.”

“Whatever, John. You’re a prick.”

She hung up, and John leaned his head back and clenched his eyes shut. _Charming as ever, Harry_ , he thought as he sighed. They, whoever they are, say that you miss the people you love the most during the holidays. John loved his sister, but he never missed Harry awfully much.

A familiar, dull ache in his chest came forth, reminding him of someone he did miss.

“John Watson, not only are you pathetic, but you’re now also talking to yourself.”

 

Walking to the shops on the tenth, John walked past a blonde woman who was accompanied by a tall man with a long brown coat. It shouldn’t have been anything special, as there were lots of couples walking around London at Christmas, but it was the look the man gave John, that made him slow down. It was not the standard quick look before averting your eyes, no, it was a very insisting look, the same you’d give someone whose attention you wanted. They had eye contact for about two seconds, before the woman spoke up just as John had passed them.

“Do you belive in miracles, John?”

John stopped, about to turn when the tall man quickly responded that he certainly did. It was nothing. It was with names as it was with couples. Lots of them, and John couldn’t be the only one with that name. So he walked away, faintly catching the man telling the woman that it was about time to go back, as they had finished what they came for.

Odd bloke, John thought. Strangely captivating, but some people just were like that. Captivating and timeless.

 

On December thirteen, John received a text from an unknown number.

_I suppose you’ll stay home for Christmas?_

**_Who’s this? JW_ **

_Isn’t this James’ phone?_

**_No. JW_ **

_I am fairly sure it is._

**_It is not. JW_ **

_J. James? John James?_

**_No. Just John. You’ve got the wrong number. JW_ **

_I don’t._

_It’s a trick._

_So you’ll stay home for Christmas?_

John frowned at the screen. Whoever the person texting him was, he or she had to be thick. John didn’t answer, and the texts stopped. The last one he got said ‘ _See you soon, James._ ’ and John deleted it with a roll of his eyes.

 

“One of the World’s most wanted is said to have been spotted in London, yesterday on the fourteenth,” the newsreader reported, her face void of any emotion at all.

John hated that about her. Watching the news were depressing enough as it was, but the woman looked like she never had had a facial expression in her life. He was sitting in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, having tea with the woman, as both of them watched the news on the new telly she had gotten for the kitchen.

“What sort of a silly name is ‘the tiger’ anyway,” Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose in wonder.

Mrs. Hudson chose to turn the tv off just after the newsreader said that the man was ex-military, and John looked into his tea with a frown.  
“No more of that nonsense. It’s Christmas, no time for such awful news,” Mrs. Hudson chippered. “Why can’t the news ever focus on the good things? It really is beyond me, doctor Watson, it really is.”

“A story of misery will always be more attractive,” John said dully. “I suppose people feel better when others suffer.”

“That’s not decent.”

With a small smile, John looked at her, echoing Sherlock from so long ago, “Who cares about decent?”

It would have been bearable, if she hadn’t given him such a sad, pitying look. It was really the last thing he needed, to have her look at him like that. She missed Sherlock, of course, but she knew that John missed him the most. She had known what Sherlock had meant, long before John had realised it himself.  Mrs. Hudson looked at him and saw a broken hearted man, and John guessed that was why she was the only one who hadn’t told him to move on yet. Because it just wasn’t possible to tell your heart to stop hurting, to stop missing, to stop wanting just one more moment, and she knew that, bless her heart.

“Another cup?”

“Please, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to come? Bridget wouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I’m good. Not in much of a Christmas mood,” John shook his head.

Christmas was a week away, and Mrs. Hudson was leaving for her sister’s this year, and Mrs. Turner from next door was joining her. Knowing John wasn’t spending Christmas with Harry, who had called again to called a few days ago to soberly apologise for her last call, Mrs. Hudson had asked John if he wanted to come to Torquay with her.

“You have fun at your sister’s place. I’ll look after Baker Street for you,” he smiled, accepting a kiss on the cheek from her.

“I just hate the thought of you being alone on Christmas. Nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

“You’ll miss your train, Mrs. Hudson,” John gently ushered her towards the door.

Putting her bags into the cab that was waiting outside, Mrs. Hudson informed him of the food she’d left in the fridge for him. Waving politely at Mrs. Turner, John turned to Mrs. Hudson one last time.

“Have a merry Christmas, dear,” she hugged him, before getting into the cab. “I hope you find the Christmas spirit anyway. ”

 

It was the twentieth when the news reported that Colonel Sebastian ‘the tiger’ Moran had been taken into custody, and now was facing trial for crimes against mankind. Nothing else was elaborated. John smiled to himself, seeing as at least some justice was left in the world.

 

Christmas. The evening of the 24th, and a beer or three later, the door opened to the flat. John didn’t move from his position in the chair, merely turned his head to stare dumbly at the person who was currently closing the door.

“I can’t be that drunk,” John mumbled to himself.

Nevertheless, Sherlock Holmes stood in the flat, now looking at John with a blank expression on his face. Just like the last time John had seen him, but at least this time he was without the blood. This Sherlock just looked a bit wrong. Thinner than John remembered him, hair longer, dishevelled, looking exhausted.

“The Ghost of Christmas past?” John asked, slightly amused of himself. Not that it made any sense.

Sherlock looked at him, his eyebrows slowly raising.

“Not what I’d expected you to say,” the baritone voice admitted, sounding surprised. “But it was always a part of your appeal that you are unpredictable at the most of times.”

It hit John like a wall of bricks. The voice pulled John out of whatever haze he was in, and it felt like being pulled out of water. The empty bottle on his hand dropped to the floor.

“Oh my God,” John’s voice shook.

Sherlock, it was definitely him, seemed satisfied with that reaction, and took a step closer.

“Hello, John.”

There it was, that stupid smile of a smug git which John had dreamed about so bloody often. Getting up, John shook his head without ever taking his eyes off Sherlock. He dared not, fearing he might disappear.

“I don’t understand. I saw you… You made me watch,” confusion was seethed into every word John spoke.

“I told you it was a trick,” Sherlock stood still, keeping himself calm and composed. Unlike John. “I’ve been trying to tell you for quite some time now. But you seem to have been oblivious to most of my hints, so I thought it was time to make them more obvious.”

“What… What the hell are you on about?”

“Surely even you must have noticed!” Annoyance, a roll of his eyes. Oh God.

“I…”

John stepped forward, being close enough to grab Sherlock by the arms. His hands touched a solid body covered by a worn-out coat, and it seemed to be all John needed to go from shocked to furious.  Shoving Sherlock back, John started yelling. Curses were thrown between every word, and Sherlock stood there and accepted everything coming his way. At least he understood that he deserved it.

“… Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve bloody put me through?” John finished, his voice shaking with anger.

When Sherlock seized him, the returned-from-the-dead detective looked John in the eyes with a determined expression. It was time for John to listen.

“I apologise a thousand times, John,” Sherlock’s voice was low. “But I will explain everything to you, as you deserve to hear it. Hear me out, and then tell me what to do. If you want me to leave, I promise you that I will.”

A slow nod from John allowed Sherlock to continue. As he talked about Moriarty, Sherlock didn’t let go of John. It was a detailed explanation of what had happened on the roof, how Sherlock had faked his own death, and just what he had been doing during the past couple of years.

And John listened.

“… The last part involved me getting Moran to London, where Mycroft aided me in his capture. I’ve taken it all down, John. For you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… But you most of all.”

“Brilliant,” John slipped, surprising them both with his word of praise.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Again, you surprise me, John. I had expected some more yelling. Perhaps even your fist breaking my nose. I am aware that I deserve that.”

John moved, Sherlock closed his eyes in acceptance without flinching. However, when John pressed his lips hard against Sherlock’s, the man seemed to jolt. But only for a second. Wrapping his arms tightly around John, Sherlock feverishly returned the kiss, hungrily exploring John’s mouth.

John was dizzy, clutching to Sherlock as they backed to Sherlock’s old chair, on which the detective sat. John straddled him, never breaking the kiss except for when he was in need of air. Gasping, hands roamed into hair, over faces, necks, fisting into clothes. It was when Sherlock, almost reverently, whispered John’s name, that John pressed himself harder against Sherlock.

“Yes.”

John was getting hard, the kisses being so raw and passionate from their time apart. Words were futile now, incapable of conveying how they both felt about each other. John had not been the only one to suffer, the only one to long for the company of the other person. There was no hesitation or shame when Sherlock’s hands reached for John’s trousers, deftly unbuttoning and freeing John’s aching member.

John gasped as Sherlock took him in his hand, and continued to kiss John’s neck as he slowly started pumping the doctor. Heat was building, and John rocked into Sherlock’s hand, desperately seeking more friction. Pre-cum was used as lubricant, and the pace of Sherlock’s hand quickened considerably.

“I’ve waited for this,” he murmured, taking John’s earlobe between his lips for a lick. “See you again, talk to you, touch you.”

Sherlock’s mouth found John’s again, swallowing the cry John let out as he came to completion under the touch of Sherlock. He was kissed through it, heated kisses turning into languid and soothing ones. Something was murmured, but John didn’t register any words. Just the vibrato of Sherlock’s voice.

“Don’t,” John warned hoarsely, as Sherlock’s fingers brushed the wetness on his face. “Not a word… Please. Can we just sit here? Like this?”

Sherlock pulled John closer. John’s arms were wrapped around Sherlock’s neck, and his head were buried in Sherlock’s shoulder. For a while the only sound in the flat was their breathing, as they were silently being thankful to have the other person back in their lives.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock eventually said, breaking the silence.

“… Welcome home, Sherlock.”


End file.
